


she's a dragon, gold dust woman

by philthestone



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, domestic fluff: space pirate superhero flavored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 20:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: She’d told him once that she’s better at this than he is -- at compartmentalizing. Injuries are anticipated in their line of work, and at this point Gamora has resigned herself to the fact that all of their collective, combined marketable skills have them stuck in it, with very few other options available. Become street performers, maybe -- she’s sure Peter would secretly delight in that idea.The pickpocket children of Knowhere might like the off-tune singing and a knife-throwing show.





	she's a dragon, gold dust woman

**Author's Note:**

> missing scene from "put your kingdom up for sale" that didn't make it into the cut the first time but i really loved it so much i had to rework it into a real fic. u don't really have to read that one to get this one.
> 
> technically infinity war renders the last half of "put your kingdom" non-canon, but this fic takes place between vol.2 and infinity war so FAIR GAME, BABEY
> 
> title is from fleetwood mac's "gold dust woman" and reviews are the delight of my heart

There is a part of Gamora that is convinced the Quadrant will always smell of unwashed bodies, even now, two years and at least fifteen deep-cleans later.

Ravagers have never been particularly hygienic folk. Not in the past, not in the future, and even those no longer in the thick of the profession retain their questionable habits in the present. The articles of clothing strewn around their bedroom floor on the Milano are enough testament to that. She’s pretty sure Peter himself has no idea which ones are clean and which aren’t.

She can deal with the smell, doesn’t necessarily always smell like flowers herself. It takes a few days of getting used to, though, and they haven’t been on the Quadrant in a while. Their bunk on the Milano doesn’t eternally carry worn body smell underneath the lingering scent of leather polish and Gamora’s cherished hair conditioner and Peter’s cheap cologne. 

She hasn’t quite reacclimated to it, in the day they’ve been aboard. Not the smell, or the heaviness of the furs covering the bed. Kraglin had pulled them out again, for them, a few hours after they’d stumbled aboard. Peter was half passed out leaking blood onto the floor and Mantis was nursing a burn on her hand and Rocket was bemoaning the damage sustained by the Milano’s thrusters for the millionth time. Gamora could still hear blasterfire ringing in her ears. 

Kraglin had sighed -- bless him -- and inclined his head towards Gamora, and said, “Well now, we’d best get him on the bed,” shrugging a vague shoulder to where Peter was slumped against Drax’s side. He’d led them back to the captain’s cabin, and got one of his piecemeal crew -- the Contraxian kid with the missing front teeth, and she couldn’t quite remember her name -- to fish the old furs out from storage. Surprising perhaps; it was his room, his ship, now. 

But Kraglin has a bizarrely ingrained sense of code, even after two years of abandoning his colours. Honour amongst thieves, Gamora supposes. There is a hierarchy of room ownership, she has learned. 

_ Cap’n comin’ back to his ole ship always gets his quarters back, _ had been the gentle response to Gamora’s protests.  _ Ain’t polite otherwise _ .

Still, Gamora’s not sure how long they’re welcome aboard what is now Kraglin’s ship. So far, they haven’t really been in the proverbial hair of what motley crew the Quadrant does have -- an agreeable bunch, ranging from very old to very young and not many in that in-between area that seems to prompt the most pig-headedness and egotism. The fresh-faced Contraxian kid who helped with the furs, an elderly Rajak woman, and a pair of reptilian twins that were found in the outskirts of the Quo’ator nebula. Kraglin seems to be erring more towards dubiously moral hired hand than pirate captain, at this point, but Gamora supposes that if he’s happy with how things are …

She opens her eyes now, slow and measured, cheek pressed against the old furs that were stubbornly musty after Gamora disinfected them with Gravarian bleach the first time and are still stubbornly musty now, recently fished out of storage crates. The worn mat of the fur tickles the tip of her nose. The room’s still dark -- it would be, given they reset the transparency of the viewport to opaque -- but she knows it’s early in the cycle. She stretches her legs out slowly under the bedding and settles fully onto her back; warmth leaks under her bare arm as it presses up against Peter’s uninjured side. She can see the mottled bruising over his hairline even in the dim lighting of the room. 

Gamora exhales, rolls her shoulders back, looks up at the darkened ceiling. The thick bedding is cool against her bare skin when she stretches, and she turns onto her other side to look over Peter more properly.

He’d make up some half-assed assertion that he’s fine if he wasn’t passed out from exhaustion and injury, she thinks, his arm a warm and heavy deadweight over her midriff. Gamora lets her head fall back against the bed again, deflating. The pillow is too soft under the base of her skull; she’d forgotten that, too, -- that the leftover housewares the Quadrant had to offer them were all dirtied, manhandled versions of their previously luxurious selves. Stolen, no doubt, Gamora had thought then. Or bought with stolen money. She rises into a sitting position, quiet but directed as she gently slips out from under Peter’s arm. She can feel the lingering traces of yesterday’s skirmish in the set of her teeth, but she’s clear-headed, alert. She can count on one hand the number of times she’s woken up anything short of alert.

Her feet hit the cold grated floor of the old bedroom and she pads quietly over to where her clothes are hung neatly over the back of one of the old armchairs. She bypasses the clothes, reveling a little in the cool air, and grabs the older model body scanner that Kraglin left her with the end of the previous cycle.

Gamora has seen enough injuries and has known Peter long enough to know the difference between mildly inconveniencing and just on the wrong side of serious. It’s not bad -- not anything that has her genuinely concerned. He’s always been resilient in a stubborn way that leaves her equal parts relieved and annoyed.

She’d told him once that she’s better at this than he is -- at compartmentalizing. Injuries are anticipated in their line of work, and at this point Gamora has resigned herself to the fact that all of their collective, combined marketable skills have them stuck in it, with very few other options available. Become street performers, maybe -- she’s sure Peter would secretly delight in that idea. 

The pickpocket children of Knowhere might like the off-tune singing and a knife-throwing show. 

She’s not ruffled by anything so blase as a leg wound, is her point. She  _ shouldn’t _ be. It’s her job, not to be; Peter’s the one who hovers and frets when someone gets hurt.

This flicker of discontent under the smooth practicality of her movements is new, and on the odd day confusing. Before -- and she hates thinking of Before, more than anything -- even the smallest shadow of it would have been considered weakness. Beaten, torn, wrung out of her.

She crawls back onto the bed, pushing aside her tangled hair as her knees sink into the mattress. Leaning over Peter’s sprawled form, Gamora bites her lip as she reaches over to activate the low yellow lamps installed above the bed. They’re tarnished on the outside, and old enough that the heat of them is tangible against the bare skin of her torso in her position by Peter’s shoulder. The scanner in her hand sputters a bit, then beeps: no signs of infection. She looks down at him; the covers have pulled over such that she can see the edge of the bandage wrapped around his left leg, and the bruise on his temple is even more obvious in the new lighting, albeit fading. 

There’s a small puddle of drool on the pillow, where Peter’s scratchy cheek is squished. His curls are a riotous mess, sticking up at odd angles above his head and in desperate need of a wash. 

Gamora feels something in her gut clench with an odd colouring of affection -- absurd, at the sight of something so ridiculous. She fists her hand tightly in the topmost of the old furs. He’ll be perfectly fine this time, so long as someone wakes him up every few hours to make sure the concussion doesn’t complicate itself. 

Somewhere at the back of her mind, there are bigger things that are always a threat, but she ignores those for now, and lets go of the covers to smooth her hand over his forehead, against his hairline.

“Peter,” she whispers, two hours since the last time she did this, precise and well-practiced.  _ Recovery _ has always been a tricky sort of word with them -- equal parts too light for what it really means and too heavy with its implications -- but she’s grateful, to Kraglin, for letting them stay a few days and recover. Take time to re-group, get back on their feet, be able to acknowledge the fact that the job wasn’t a total failure because they  _ did  _ get paid. Paid  _ enough _ \--  _ enough _ that she could tell Rocket nearly voiced aloud the sentiment that she felt gnawing at the pit of her stomach:  _ a couple impaled limbs and a concussion are worth it, right? _

She should be in agreement -- would have been,  _ before _ . A lot has changed since then.

“ _ Peter _ .”

“Hhnnn.”

“Peter,” she says, a bit louder. “You need to wake up every few hours.”

“‘Nmmmhh. ‘M ‘wake.”

Gamora drags her fingers through his bangs, making them stick up even further. “Come on. Open your eyes.”

“‘M ‘ _ wake _ ,” he slurs, bringing up one uncoordinated hand to paw at her arm. She purses her lips to bite back a smile as his eyes finally blink open, bleary. “Ow.”

_ Ow _ seems apt, all things considered.

“What’s my name?”

“Beautiful.” 

It’s good, Gamora supposes, that his knee-jerk reactions are perfectly intact. “ _ Peter _ .”

“‘N’ _ know _ , I kno -- ‘m fine, Gamora. ’Ve had worst.”

“How many fingers am I holding up,” she persists, ignoring him, leaning over closer and holding three of her fingers in front of his nose.

“‘Nough to poke my frickin’ eyes out,” he says, squinting and batting her hand away. She pinches his arm with her free hand, and he makes a funny noise in between a groan and a whine. “ _ Three _ . C’mon.”

“How do you feel?” she says, ignoring his protests once more but easing her posture such that she’s leaning a little into the dip of the mattress and letting her palm rest against his bare shoulder.

“Alright,” he says. He shifts a little on his elbows, as though to reposition himself, and bites back a lopsided version of a grimace. “ _ Aaa-hh _ \-- leg’s sore.” 

“It was a messy wound,” she says, apology sneaking into her voice as though somehow she is responsible for the barbaric warped metal of the Badoon arms dealer’s weapon of choice.

“We got more’f those painkillers anywhere?”

“I can go check. What about your head?” 

“Rocket says’ss hard.”

“He’s correct,” she says, falling forward a bit with his movement but bracing herself easily against him. “But that is not the point. Dizzy?”

He exhales, loud and long. “Nah. Jus’ tired.”

He’s not quite articulate, she thinks, but then he’s never entirely articulate in the minutes immediate after he’s woken up. It’s a developed skill, understanding what Peter’s talking about when he’s fully awake and cogent, let alone when he’s still half-asleep. 

As she said: she’s not overly concerned. They’ve been through this routine enough times that most of it is muscle memory, after the first thirty seconds or so.

It doesn’t stop her from remembering the unpleasant twist of her stomach at how pale his face was, yesterday.

“Are you sure?” Gamora says, most of the little tension that had held in her shoulders gone entirely, swaying forward again with the shift of the mattress underneath them. “If you are you have to stay awake. Peter. What.” Because his eyes seem to have refocused on her, and a goofy smile is breaking its way past the half-baked grimace.

“You really are, y’know.”

“What,” says Gamora again, half a laugh, half a whisper. She doesn’t mean to soften, but it happens anyway, breath stealing away at the tenderness of the lines around his eyes, the gentle affection he’s looking at her with. He’s concussed, she knows -- and has experienced looks like this before, for nearly two years, now. But he says,

“Beautiful,” a little slurred, and Gamora feels the underneath of her skin heat in a way that has nothing to do with the crappy old lamps.

“Peter,” she says. A reprimand with very little substance. Peter’s eyes are already sliding shut again, an imprint of a sleepy smile in the lines of his face as he adjusts his head against the pillow in an unconscious bid at settling back in. She feels his fingers reaching blindly for her over the bedding and she catches them, pressing her palm against his larger, rougher one. 

She wishes, sometimes, that she wasn’t so good at compartmentalizing. That she could feel as easily and naturally as he does, like slipping on worn boots. 

“You didn’t tell me if your head is bothering you,” Gamora says, voice soft. 

Peter makes an undignified noise against the pillow. 

“‘M fine, baby. Come back t’bed.”

In about thirty seconds, Gamora knows, he’s going to be drooling again. Which means she’ll have to wake him up again to get him the painkillers. Her own smile curls at her mouth again unbidden, affection drowning out the earlier tightness of concern, and with the fluid movement of habit she leans forward and brushes her mouth against his unmarred temple before saying,

“I’m gonna go check on the others. And get the painkillers. I’ll be back soon.”

“Hmmm.” He’s smiling in his sleep, despite the bruises along his hairline and the bloodied bandage around his leg. “Love’oo.”

She presses her lips against his forehead in a proper kiss in response, before pulling away and sliding to her feet in one fluid movement, making for her discarded clothes. In a moment, she’s breezing past the foot of the bed and out the quiet swishing hatch of the door, that same, odd affection twisting around in her chest.


End file.
